Saturday, December 1, 2012

Joel asleep, Paeha stretched on his lap, hot coffee waiting on the table

Paeha has claimed Joel's lap since the moment we got home. There we are.

Last night, at the comfort service for D, a member of the family spoke about losing the culture, the stories, the Way whenever an elder moved on --and then he spoke forcefully about God's judgment and the comfort in that.... When he had accomplished what he wanted to say, and I asked if there was anyone else that wanted to speak, and no one came forward, I began with an apology --asking forgiveness if anything I said was wrong or should be said in a different way.... And then I said that I didn't see a lost culture --but as an outsider, saw a vibrant culture alive and well.

And then I spoke about my grandmother, how she was born in a two-room sod house in North Dakota (and they all shook their heads yes --they know the little houses well), and how, when I was little, she used to tell me the stories of growing up on the Great Plains --and how when I first arrived here I missed her so very much and really wanted to hear her tell those stories again... and then, how I realized that what I really missed was her voice and her touch and the light in her eye --but the stories were alive and well in me --almost word for word.... And that it was alright to miss D's voice and touch and the light in her eye --but that her stories were alive in them, her hopes and dreams were alive in them --and that we have the promise of new life --so grieve in a holy way, holding the loss, the life within us, and the promise of new life in God together.... Practice living now as we shall surely live forever... with hope.

And after our prayers and songs and a blessing, I went outside --and in the vast expanse of stars and the moon in her cloak of soft white and the frost scattered thick as snow across the ground like so many fallen stars, I let my hope leap from me, unfinished. Hope ragged and tarnished and imperfect. Hope full of holes.

And my hope ran around in the dark, climbed the cottonwood tree, bathed in the moonlight, naked under the stars, leapt in to the frost and snow like an exotic cliff diver, making her way to me glittering with frozen bits lifting the rocks and logs to speak to the sleeping snakes --and returned to me unashamed --unabashed to speak to me of things that glimmer with reflected light --moon-like.... And she sat then, on my head, like a silly hat of some sort covered with broad stitches and foolish frosty sequins, folded over my forehead and draped down my neck --adorned in a folly which lit my way out of the dark yard, back to the door and the people....

--this is how to dance in the dark... this is the dance of hope... this is to mock death and the grave... my grandmother's stories never took the frozen ice seriously --I mean, she took it seriously, but it was never the end of the story....

Dressed in hope, I was able to eat the bologna sandwich offered in the parish hall --a sandwich of hope. How silly it is to hope... and there I was, full of it --playing with the children, Ezekiel, Noah --their questions like prayer flags catching every breath --talking with the adults who still held tears in the corners of their eyes --all of us without confidence --all of us silly --all of us adorned.... Holy grief.

All of us asleep as the sun rises, unexpected love draped across our laps... lost in the garden....

At prayer this morning ( a portion of Psalm 144)

Rescue me from the hurtful sword *
and deliver me from the hand of foreign peoples,
Whose mouths speak deceitfully *
and whose right hand is raised in falsehood.

May our sons be like plants well nurtured from their youth, *
and our daughters like sculptured corners of a palace.
May our barns be filled to overflowing with all manner of crops; *
may the flocks in our pastures increase by thousands and tens of thousands;
may our cattle be fat and sleek.
May there be no breaching of the walls, no going into exile, *
no wailing in the public squares.
Happy are the people of whom this is so!

Hey God, it's margaret. Really and truly, I no longer want rescue --whatever. I want to remember what my grandmother said AFTER she spoke of the frozen buckets of water in her house and the dogs turning three times under her cot in the night, bumping her with their back, and then she practiced writing the alphabet with her toe in the dust.... I remember what it feels like to listen --the feelings her stories left in me, but I can't remember her words.... Did she really just turn and offer my grandfather a glass of buttermilk and fry him up some bacon and eggs?

Yeah. I think so....

And this then, is my story. Frozen buckets, dogs, alphabet dust, buttermilk, and bacon and eggs, with naked hope shining in moonlight and frost on her toes and the children waving prayer flags eating bologna sandwiches.

6 comments:

My grandmother and her family lived in a sod house in Nebraska when they first came here from Scotland - she was 14. She had a wonderful public school education in Scotland so there was nothing more for her here in those days. They would have hired her as a teacher (even at 14) but she was only 4'10 and they thought she could not handle the bigger boys (hah! she had 3 sons and they would cower when she spoke -even in old age). So she went to work for a doctor's family and rode sidesaddle each day to work at being a mother's helper. They moved on to Oregon after one winter of living on a diet of onions.

You are such a wonderful writer, Margaret. I hope you will compile a book some day.

I don't know what your tastes might run to, but my cousin Jody is a writer recently returned to South Dakota (Pierre, I think) after years in the east working as a writer and editor for magazines. I understand he is celebrated for capturing the ordinary. If you are interested, his latest book is "The Christmas Plains." His name is Joseph Bottum. (I haven't read it.)

Mary --the first priest... took ordinary bread and ordinary wine and made the real Body and Blood of Christ, the liberator, our passover. Blessed is she who believes that there will be a fulfillment of what has been spoken to her by the Lord.

Books for Sale at Amazon:

Wisdom from susankay

Some people think Jesus a softy because he kept speaking of love -- they obviously haven't tried it.

Dorothy Sayers (Creed or Chaos?)

Let us,

In Heaven's name,

drag out the Divine Drama

from under the dreadful accumulation

of slipshod thinking

and trashy sentiment heaped upon it,

and set it on an open stage

to startle the world

into some sort of vigorous reaction.

If the pious are the first to be shocked,

so much the worse for the pious

--others will enter the Kingdom of Heaven before them.

If all men are offended because of Christ,

let them be offended;

but where is the sense

of their being offended at something

that is not Christ

and is nothing like Him?

We do Him

singularly little honor by watering down

'til it could not offend a fly.

Surely it is not the

business of the Church

to adapt Christ to man,

but to adapt man to Christ.

Wise Words of Mark Harris

It is therefore of considerable help to those of us who despair for the Church and its life to know that our blindness is a product of no special sin or defect. We are imperfect because we see imperfectly, bound as we are to a calling that reaches beyond our ken.

A prayer for those serving in this endless war

Almighty God, we commend to your gracious care and keeping all the men and women at war. Defend them with your heavenly grace; strengthen them in their trials; move their hearts so that the barriers which divide us may crumble and hatreds cease; and grant them a sense of your abiding presence wherever they may be; through Jesus Christ the Prince of Peace.

St. Teresa d'Avila's 'Nada te Turbe'

Nada te Turbe

Let nothing disturb you,nothing afright you.

Whom God possesses

in nothing is wanting.

Alone God suffices.

All things are passing.God never ceases.Patient endurance attains all things.

it's margaret

this is my morning prayer blog where I ponder events in the world, our politics and other stuff. I have been told I am reverently irreverent. There we are. My prayer is enmeshed in my experience as an Episcopal priest in Eagle Butte, South Dakota on the Cheyenne River Reservation --and yes, I am a daughter of the wild west. God is good --all the time.

Eucharist as Revolution

Any act that provides the Bread of Heaven and the Cup of Salvation for all - and anyone who comes to the table - will always cause at least a stir.When one who has been excluded is the one who presides at that Eucharist, or when the one who has been excluded invites absolutely everyone to the Table to be fed, well, it becomes, in and of itself, the revolutionary act which Jesus intended it to be.

Elizabeth Kaeton, "Telling Secrets" Blog

Just sayin'....

for Paul, from Paul

Tradition and Traditionalism

Tradition is the living faith of dead people to which we must add our chapter while we have the gift of life. Traditionalism is the dead faith of living people who fear that if anything changes, the whole interprise will crumble. --Jaroslav Pelikan

Called to share what we have....

Revolutionary Heroes

Need I mention that this needless, counterproductive, illegal, and immoral invasion and occupation is really much, much larger than the AIG scandal?--Byzigenous BuddhapalianIn the Church, considered as a social organism, the mysteries inevitably degenerate into beliefs.--Simone WeilIt does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people's minds.--Samuel Adams

Banking establishments are more dangerous than standing armies.--Thomas Jefferson

As I understand it, laws, commands, rules and edicts are for those who have not the light which makes plain the pathway.--Anne Hutchinson

What a country calls its vital economic interests are not the things which enable its citizens to live, but the things which enable it to make war.--Simone Weil

It will, I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation.--Jane Austen

A Gift from Grandmere Mimi:

I did not see sin: for I believe that it has no kind of substance nor any part of being nor could it be known except by the pain it causes. And this pain purges us and makes us know ourselves and to ask compassion.

Julian of Norwich

Mr. Wittgenstien

"I answer to Witty," he says.

See who matters

Mr. Witty in his glory

Love Conquers Hatred

"He abused me, he hit me, he oppressed me, he robbed me." Those who continue to hold such thoughts never still their hatred.

"He abused me, he hit me, he oppressed me, he robbed me." Those who do not hold such thoughts soon still their hatred.

For in this world hatred is never appeased by more hatred. It is love that conquers hatred. This is an eternal law.